


Etna

by gardnerhill



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:09:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Physician, heal thyself," my ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Etna

**Author's Note:**

> For the Watson's Woes prompt 2011 (TLC for Watson). Based on the Granada Productions' version of "The Three Gables."

When Holmes is on the case, he is all flint and sharp angles, a brilliant brain and an imperious bark (and, on occasion, a fiercely-swung stick). All that is in his sight is the truth, to be prised out of its surrounding intrigue and deceit for all the world to see. All softer human considerations fall by the wayside.

This trait made Holmes very disagreeable for the police and the people affected by the crime, in the days when he worked on his own; many Scotland Yarders bluntly admitted that Holmes had twice their talent, but refused to work with "that bleedin' iceberg."

When John Watson began to accompany the detective and acted as a buffer between his friend's sharp cold mind and the victims – comforting the bereaved, providing chairs for shaken witnesses, commiserating with a robbery victim, chatting about golf to Lestrade – the work became smoother and easier for everyone.

Holmes on the case is all angles and flint, even to the sole friend he has in the world. He callously uses Watson's affection for him and inability to dissimulate as another tool in his arsenal when the situation calls for it – feigning fatal illness, sending him away from Baker Street under the guise of reporting on the case for him, and in the cruelest act of his life letting Watson think he was dead for three years.

Lestrade, Hopkins, Gregson and a few others of the more astute Scotland Yard detectives pity Watson more than once, even as they reap the rewards of his friend's successes. Lestrade privately wishes Watson would pop Holmes on the nose, just once, and wonders if admiration if not outright hero-worship can possibly make up for being treated so coldly.

***

When Watson is brutally beaten by the boxer Steve Dixie during the robbery of Mary Maberley's house, Holmes storms the violated Three Gables like a one-man army, rage like an avalanche of ice in his voice. Watson's reappearance – stumbling, head bandaged, eye swelling – calms the maelstrom at once…back to a mere swirling ice flurry. All the battered man receives from his friend is a brief tap on the shoulder and a snide aphorism as Holmes passes him without a second look to see the crime scene and the bedridden victim. Watson, wretched with the knowledge that it was his own negligence that abetted the break-in, sits dejected on the stairs and accepts the callous taunt as his due.

Any anger Holmes displays through to the case's denouement is solely aimed at the goal of seeking the truth and exposing the guilty party for the sake of his client's peace of mind, and to avenge her murdered relative. Watson limps behind without a word of complaint as his injuries heal.

If they had been there to see, Lestrade and the other 'tecs would only shake their heads sadly at the sight, and click their tongues in sympathy for the faithful friend ignored in the shadow of this ice mountain. It is just as well they are not there to see, and not to see all, for quite apart from the legalities of the thing the shock might very well cause an epidemic of apoplectic fits among London's finest.

Because when they are finally home in Baker Street at the end of the case, Holmes sweeps Watson up into his arms and kisses every wound he sustained in his friend's service; calls him _mon chevalier parfait, mon lion courageux, mon coeur vrai_ as he bares him in his bedroom; slowly and tenderly makes love to his perfect knight, his brave lion, his true heart, until the morning clatter of the milk-wagon; and only then holds his friend's hurt hand between both of his and begs Watson for his forgiveness.

Lestrade & Co. are the best of Scotland Yard, sharp and astute.

Almost astute enough.


End file.
